


The Plague Years

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jaime's Awkward Boner June Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 21:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: For JAB June, 2018!Jaime's Awkward Boner inhabits a Lannister Charity Benefit while dodging the inconvenient proximity of a certain Wench.





	The Plague Years

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote something! *Sniff* I'm so happy right now. Thanks to Mikki for the beta as always! This is an homage to one of my favorite films, Bringing Up Baby.

 

The walls were closing in, the air hot and dry like the desert. Jaime tugged at his collar, loosened his tie. Swallowed thickly for the hundredth time. _Why was it so damned hot?_

His predicament just might have something to do with a certain _friend_ swaggering around the party in some kind of unholy, skin-skimming silk.

Fine, fine, his state of extreme discomfort was twisting his perception. She was not precisely swaggering, more clinging to the paisley-papered walls of the hotel ballroom as she tried to go unnoticed. As if she could. Even in her typical sensible shoes, she towered over almost everyone.

 _Oh, no...no, no, no_ . She was scanning the room to find him, for the third time. Jaime ducked behind one of the indoor potted palms that decorated the edge of the dance floor. _Dornish Nights and Myrish Days_. That was his brother’s idea of a “nice theme for rich assholes.”

Tyrion was doing his duty as M.C. of the annual Lannister Corp. charity auction, half drunk as he described each item on the block. The milling crowd was composed of one-half business people who owed something or everything to Tywin Lannister, one-quarter start-up brats thinking they could impress the old lion, and one-quarter Lannister relatives and relatives-adjacent. Like him. And Brienne Tarth of the skin-skimming silk.

She had been solidly _adjacent_ to him for four years. It was a situation noted by everyone in their acquaintance, because not a single person understood why the most eligible and scandal-ridden bachelor in Westeros was never seen with any “eligible” women. Instead, he was almost always in the company of the heiress of Tarth, and being an heiress wasn’t nearly enough to form for society a reasonable excuse for their adjacence.

Jaime had heard a thousand times that if Brienne were any other woman, literally _any_ other, it would be assumed they were lovers. That was impossible, because she was not beautiful, she was taller than him, and she was so strong she could take out the whole security team using only a soup ladle. Or so he imagined. It was a fun preoccupation.

No one understood that they were, in simple terms, codependent hermit friends. They had become essentially inextricable. Jaime could barely tolerate anyone’s company anymore, only hers and sometimes his brother’s, and that was because people were just very stupid. Always leaping to asinine conclusions, having no sense of worth, valuing only the superficial. He’d had his youthful stupidity, but that was long over. It was total coincidence that he’d decided he hated his father’s world right around the time he’d met Brienne Tarth by crashing into her bicycle with his new Lannrover. The shouting match had been epic, and they hadn’t gone more than three days without seeing one another since.

It had been Tyrion who began calling them hermit friends. He thought Jaime had become agoraphobic due to his refusal to be seen in public. That was ridiculous. Jaime was seen in public all the time, it was just that the public had no idea. A hat here and there, with various shapes of glasses, and imported Meereenese facial wigs did wonders for peace of mind. This was a recent development after he’d grown tired of years of _explaining_ why he was only ever seen with Brienne. Instead of wasting his time, he would just avoid being seen at all, and now they could enjoy the brunches Brienne loved without fending off judging glances and flirtatious servers.

Dammit, he missed her, but he was avoiding her. The fronds of the palm kept scratching his cheek. He knew he could only abandon her for a few more minutes before his conscience would object, but he _needed_ those minutes to calm himself the ever-living fuck down.

The problem was his pants. Rather, _in_ his pants. He couldn’t exactly recall when this particular problem became The Plague. It had a been slow interference. The first time it had become symptomatic, he’d been so shocked that he hadn’t understood precisely what had caused the intra-pant excitation. It had been at the spa. Tyrion had given him a “hilarious” nameday gift of a certificate for a complete body overhaul, whatever that meant. Jaime had decided the experience would be funnier if accompanied by Brienne, because he hadn’t really considered going at all without her. They had been in some fancy jacuzzi with steam rising all around, lights dim and pink salt blocks casting strange shadows on their skin. It had struck without warning. He’d hit his head on the jacuzzi’s edge, and she’d fished him out of the water only for his head to settle itself on her soft shoulder.

Then he’d noticed what an incredible ass she had. That had been later, maybe weeks, but once he’d noticed, there was no going back. It had registered then why he’d hit his head in the jacuzzi. As he’d thought of the steam, it had happened again. The shocking excitation became a condition. Then it had happened the next day at Samwell’s Club when, with one hand, she’d hefted an entire case of his favorite sparkling water into the giant cart. When a condition manifested consistently, surely it was a downright sickness? He had not wondered long, for the soon-to-be-daily sickness grew into The Plague.

Many months later, he was now hiding behind a potted palm because she was wearing _that_ , another “fun” gift from Tyrion after the little shit had ruined her sensible ensemble in the limo by spilling half a bottle of blood-red wine onto it. Apparently, Tyrion’s secretary could only send over a blush-pink silk jumpsuit that plunged indecently in the front _and_ the back, and clung to every inch of her body. She was horribly embarrassed, the livid red of her blush clashing with that odd shade of pink. She relied on him to make her feel better, or at least he told himself that, but instead, he had darted away across the dance floor to down two glasses of wine and now possibly gouge his eye out with a frond.

She could not see The Plague. It would not fade. It was a demanding rat bastard attempting to gnaw its way out of his fine linen. Think of Tywin, he told himself. Think of Westeros. Not working. He was sweating so badly he’d have to find a new shirt. Think of Gregor Clegane in a hot dog eating contest.

Ah, a momentary respite. A slight easing of his pulse. Did he dare stand upright? He eased up slowly, inch by inch, prepared to witness of a tent of horrors when he glanced down. He could breath finally. It was a pup tent instead of an eight-person domed yurt. There was hope.

He turned to escape the palm. Sapphire blue saucers stared right at him, inquisitive, concerned, calming. Surrounded by blonde wisps and plump lips. _Oh no. No, no, no._ She smelled like the tropics. He wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it was the best he could do.

“Jaime are you feeling alright?” Her voice was low and soothing, not betraying at all how much she hated being at this damned party.

He should have realized long ago that he couldn’t stare at her eyes without The Plague plaguing away. Bloody thrice-damned dick infestation. He couldn’t move or glance away without betraying himself to her. He could feel himself turning red from holding his breath. He nodded, stilted and awkward.

Her brows drew together. “You’re _not_ alright. Why didn’t you tell me?”

And then doom. Utter doom. Her soft hand rose as if in slow motion, cutting through a palm-scented fog until it settled against his clammy forehead. _Help_ , he whispered to the palm.

The pup tent became a camper van became a circus. He could feel the heat of her body jolting into him through her palm against his skin, and all the clowns and the trapeze artists and show ponies decided to do a dress rehearsal within the confines of his trousers. What could he say, they all loved their audience.

“You’re burning up, Jaime!”

He nodded, because he was, indeed, burning up.

She stepped a little bit closer. _Oh no, no, no. No._ He moved into the plant. The pot tipped backward, so she grabbed him by the collar, and he slammed right into her.

“Jaime, what is the matter 一 ”

Her eyes went wide as frisbees. He swallowed thickly, tried to smile apologetically, but felt that it likely manifested as some manic grimace.

She glanced to the side instantly, dropping her hand. “Oh.”

She was repulsed. His impulses disgusted her fine sensibilities. He thought about lying, claiming that Tyrion had laced his wine with Pycelis. As if a Lannister would ever need stimulants.

She was blinking too much, trying hard not to look at him even though she had forgotten to push him away. The Plague was right there between them, grazing her hip like a creepy pet snake.

“I...I see that Arianne Martell is very beautiful,” she whispered, still looking away.

Was she giving him an out? So ridiculous. As if he cared about that witless Martell girl with the disturbingly massive nipples she liked to flash to everyone.

He decided not to move or try to worm his wait out of embarrassment. It was too late for that. All he could do was beg her not to abandon him since he’d become a hopeless case of wayward cock.

“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.” He almost choked on his words since his mouth was so dry.

Her eyes flashed anger as she finally looked back. “You know she is. Everyone knows she is.”

“Maybe so, but it’s nothing to do with me. Why would you assume I was thinking about her?” Maybe conversation would dampen The Plague enough for him to explain coherently.

Brienne seemed disbelieving. “Why would you not? No one here is new except for her.”

“She’s around the city. Not new at all.”

She looked away again. “If you want to take her out, you should.”

His pulse sped up again. What was she saying? Was this some underhanded way of telling him that she had no interest in assuaging his plague and wanted to set him up with a saucer-nippled Dornish tart?

 _No_. He felt resolve wash over him. He would have to tell her about The Plague, and that while he did indeed have an acute desire to plow a field like a team of aurochs, the field he wanted to plow was hers alone. If that disgusted her, he would work on an apology over breakfast.

“Brienne, no一 ”

“It’s okay. You really shouldn’t feel that every evening must be spent with me. I’ll just call her over, and I’ll go home.”

“Brienne, _no_!”

“Arianne?” she called, softly but forcefully over the din of the ongoing auction.

Dammit, the woman just happened to be standing nearby. He couldn’t imagine this evening going worse.

A cloud of perfume arrived before Arianne did. The woman was covered in a strange film of gold-flecked fake tan. She completely ignored Brienne and grinned up at Jaime with a lascivious glint in her eye.

“Well, now, Jaime Lannister. You look like you need some air.” She pawed his arm with a taloned hand.

The Plague vanished. The clowns piled into their tiny car and drove away, giving him sweet relief.

Brienne noticed. She looked at him with suspicion and confusion clouding those baby blues.

“Don’t you want to say hello?” Arianne purred.

“Not particularly,” he growled out.

“What?”

He spared a glance at Arianne of the Saucers. “It was a mistake. Brienne thought I was ill and needed an extra hand to help out, but I’m fine. Thank you and goodbye.”

“What?” Arianne stepped back in rage.

“Oh look! My cousin Tarcel is over in the corner, all upset about his divorce.” Jaime waited.

Arianne spun around. “Divorce? Well, yes, goodbye.” She rushed away, trying in vain to spot Tarcel Lannister.

Brienne looked even more suspicious. “You don’t have a cousin Tarcel.”

“No one has a cousin Tarcel.”

She sighed, her breasts just brushing the lapels of his jacket. _Oh no_. “Jaime, what is going on? Really?”

He began to sweat again. There was no getting out of this, no going back. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to get out or go back, but it was a massive risk that could prove heart-ripping if she couldn’t be his friend anymore.

He swallowed and took a deep breath. “Your ass in that silk is publicly challenging.”

Her blue eyes got bluer somehow, her grimace terrifying. “What are you saying? Please don’t mock 一 ”

Jaime had enough. “Stop with the _please don’t mock_ bollocks, Brienne. You know very well that I never mock you.”

“You most certainly do!”

“Not in _that_ way! Not anymore and not for almost four years,” he insisted.

“We’ve only known one another for four years.”

“Four years and three months.”

She leaned back and glanced at the ceiling in exasperation. “Fine, I know you don’t mock in _that_ way, but I have no idea what you mean right now.”

She really could be obtuse sometimes. He waited until she grew tired of the chandeliered view and met his gaze. He stepped close, into the circle of her body heat, so she could get some _idea_.

The Plague multiplied. It loved the feel of her silk-clad thigh brushing against it. She blinked and blinked until he could see that she understood. Her skin turned clammy, and she looked like she wanted to run away, possibly to Asshai, but she didn’t budge.

“Me?” she whispered, clearly still disbelieving.

Of course her. Only her, for longer than he’d grasped. Her simple question sent a surge of heat through his entire body, making his chest feel full. “You.”

“I...I don’t understand.” She was turning tomato red by the inch.

Now _he_ looked at the ceiling, throwing his hands up and making the palm fronds jostle. “Yes, you do!”

“Ah! A bid for ten thousand from my own brother, Jaime Lannister!” Tyrion’s voice over the loudspeaker shattered Jaime’s fixation for the moment.

“What?” he and Brienne said at the same time as they looked over at Tyrion’s auctioneer platform.

“Do we have ten thousand and five? Ten thousand and five. Going once, twice, sold to Jaime Lannister for ten thousand!” A round of applause bloomed around the ballroom.

Tyrion continued. “What a generous gift for the King’s Landing Children’s Hospital. Jaime come up here!”

 _Oh no. No, no, no_. He was sweating. He could barely speak. He had an enormous plague tent straining its way into the public eye.

He cleared his throat. “No accolades, please, Tyrion. It’s for the children!”

“Come now, brother, you’ve got to open your prize! The wonderful surprise package donated by the wonderful Martell Travel Group! Wouldn’t want to disappoint such a generous crowd, no?”

Jaime rubbed his eyes. Tywin would have his hide for being so indecorous at the benefit. He didn’t even know what he’d just accidentally won, and worse, he couldn’t see how to claim it without showing off The Plague.

“Save me,” he pleaded to Brienne. She would think of a way, unclouded by lust unlike him.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut for a moment, sighed, then reached for his hand. She turned around and brought his hand to rest on her waist, his chin hovering over her shoulder. “Stay right behind me.”

They walked toward Tyrion, right feet, left feet, two clowns engaged in a waltz of the absurd. All the while, her fine ass hugged The Plague, her muscles serenading it. If only he could convince her of the truth, maybe get her alone, strip that silk right off her…

“Did the two of you forget your horse costume, or do you always walk like this?” Tyrion chuckled nervously. The audience roared in half-drunken laughter.

There was no distracting from the stupidity of their pose. They reached the auction area, still glued together. Jaime wrapped his entire arm around her waist in solidarity. She really was doing him a massive favor, putting herself on display with no other outcome than ridicule. He steeled himself and thought of his response to Tyrion, trying to minimize the situation in order to get Brienne away as quickly as possible.

“Well, brother, I’ve got a broken zipper in an inconvenient location. True friends shield accidental exposure.” Jaime laughed, hoping Tyrion would get the clue and laugh, too.

Fortunately, Tyrion was clever. “Ah, I see. If only Lannisters had a habit of wearing undergarments! Though I hear from the ladies that our neglect is convenient.” He winked at one or ten women gawking nearby. “Now, claim your winnings, Jaime. For the children!”

Tyrion gestured to a massive gift-wrapped box being wheeled out from behind a golden curtain. Brienne wiggled restlessly, but in only a second she froze as The Plague reminded her of its presence nestled firmly against her. Jaime almost didn’t mind anymore. It felt _good_. He was phasing too quickly from embarrassed into addicted.

The giant box came to a halt between the Jaime/Brienne combination of human and Tyrion with the microphone.

“Let’s count together!” he shouted. “Three, two, one!”

The lid of the box burst open, and out popped two scantily-clad Dornish women, one blowing on a party trumpet and wearing a sign around her neck reading _Enjoy two weeks in beautiful Sunspear!_

The other woman wore a bikini and a top hat, and held two water guns aimed straight at them.

 _Oh no. No, no, no._ He was willing to risk exposure to stop what was about to happen, a water gun assault where Brienne would take all the big hits, wearing nothing but already-nearly-transparent pink silk. She would be mortified.

He spun her around in the nick of time, her breasts now pressed against his heated chest. She stared at him with a dozen conflicting emotions battling in her eyes. The Plague was finding a new home at exactly the right height.

The damned Dornish woman fired those water guns with gleeful abandon. “Pew pew! Pew pew!’

Tiny streams lasered through the space and pelted Brienne’s back. She recoiled against his body, but there was nowhere to go. Over her shoulder, he could see the wet silk plaster itself to her skin, water soaking downward over her ass as if she wore nothing at all.

The Plague grew so, so much worse, but no matter. He could not let her perish in this onslaught.

He brought his hands around to cover her magnificent globes. The audience gasped. Tyrion almost dropped the mic, he was laughing so hard. Brienne was redder than ever. He could feel the heat through his hands and against his chest. She might never forgive him! The thought was unbearable.

“Brienne?” his whispered in her ear.

She was still frozen as everyone in the room laughed and laughed.

“Turn around,” he told her. “Now. We’re leaving.”

She groaned, immediately spinning in his arms so her back would be shielded.

Tyrion finally remembered to speak. “Well, isn’t this a turn of events.”

“Pew pew!” said the Dornish woman. She fired again, straight at Brienne’s chest.

“No!” Jaime shouted at her.

It was too late. Brienne’s rosy nipples pebbled under the cold fabric. He slapped his hands over her breasts.

“Ouch!” she elbowed him in the side, but it only served to make The Plague dance against her now-soaked ass.

He kept his left hand on her left breast while he slid his right arm over until it could cover both her breasts. He could barely understand his own reactions, torn as they were between protectiveness, consuming lust, and rage at all the people laughing, even though they weren’t really laughing in a mean way. If this had happened to literally anyone else, he would be laughing, too.

She was flushed and rigid, but she leaned her head back on his shoulder anyway, turning her face away from the crowd. He had to get her out of there.

He glared at Tyrion, trying to signal him to wrap it up. “Thank you, brother, for the...experience, and thank you Martell Travel Group for donating this...prize.”

Tyrion shouted into the mic. “Lannister events really _can’t_ be beat, am I right?”

The audience clapped and hooted, and Jaime could finally drag Brienne away. He nudged the back of her knee to get her to walk. She lifted her head and didn’t move another unnecessary muscle until they had made it out of the ballroom and into some service area where only a few cater-waiters lingered.

He didn’t drop his arm, or remove his hand which still rested over her left breast. The Plague was throwing an absolute tantrum.

Finally, he couldn’t stand the silence. “Why aren’t you moving? Running away from me?”

“Why aren’t _you_ moving and running?” She leaned her head back on his shoulder for the second time. He realized that his fingers were pressing against her breast, playing with her through the silk. He wasn’t doing it consciously. Then he did, and she gasped, lightly and delicately. Could it be possible that she wasn’t repulsed? That she could react to his touch the way he reacted constantly to her very presence? He brushed the tip of his index finger over her nipple.

This time, it was an outright moan, and she slapped her hand over her mouth, standing upright and turning so red it was nearly purple. He stepped around to face her.

“Kiss me,” he pleaded.

She dropped her hand and stared, but she did not budge. Her gaze quickly fell to his mouth, her breathing fast and shaky. He kissed her instead. He wasn’t a patient man.

The wet silk stuck to his linen, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands, but her lips were an oasis in the desert. He wanted to devour her, and The Plague was draining all the blood from his brain so he might not have enough sense left to stop from stripping her naked right there in the catering room.

She raised her arms to wrap around his neck, and all was right with the world. He never thought she would kiss him back, and she wasn’t even being shy.

Finally, he left her lips just long enough to breathe and ask, “Let’s leave.”

She nodded, her blues dark and seductive even though her expression was bewildered and innocent.

“Let’s go to Dorne.” It was impulsive, he knew, but it wasn’t as if he cared.

“Right now?”

“Why not? I’ve just won a package deal.” He used one hand to draw her hip flush against him. “I’ve got another urgent package deal to give you.”

She rolled her eyes. “A mortifying package deal, and an overpraised package deal.”

“You can’t possibly provide a truthful review without first hand experience. As for the prize, possibly mortifying, but that depends.” He baited her, but he only wanted her to forget the part about being half-naked in front of hundreds of people.

“On what?” She sounded rightfully suspicious.

“On whether you’re part of the package.” He cleared his throat. “So, want to go to Dorne where we never have to leave the hotel if we don’t want to, and where I will tell you all about my secret plague that I’ve kept from you for ages, and where, if you haven’t booked an escape ticket by then, I will repeatedly fuck you until you can’t walk?”

For a moment, she looked more than suspicious, almost afraid, but then her eyes cleared and she glared at him. “Did you name your...thing...a _plague,_ Jaime?”

“Yes. It’s had no respite, and it’s become an enormous problem. See?” He twisted in order to make absolutely sure that she could feel just how problematic his situation was.

She swallowed, and he could see that she struggled not to smile. “Fine. If you’re really serious, then I suppose we can consider how to alleviate your moderately-sized problem.”

“Enormous. It’s an enormous problem.”

She seemed nervous, so he slid his hands over her skin, attempting to seduce her into as much of a frenzy as he was experiencing. She glanced away, and she sounded light with an edge. “Good thing I’m a big girl then.”

He bit her earlobe. “I’m strong enough, and we fit just right. I’ll work hard to convince you.”

She kissed him then, without having to be eased into it. “I’m convinced.”

  



End file.
